by Robin Hardy
The band played a noisy flourish and there was a unanimous shout of approval from the audience.
'Do you accept, Beth?' asked Lachlan.
Beth was clearly very moved. Her eyes were misty as she made her reply.
'I am deeply honoured,' she said. 'Sure I accept! Lachlan has explained to us how the next two days are, like, very special holidays for you. As soon as they are over, Steve and I hope you will come and talk to us about Jesus, like, we'll be waiting and hoping…'
'…and praying that you'll come,' added Steve.
'And now let us sing one of our old songs to Steve and Beth,' invited Lachlan. He had only to sing the first line in his deep bass tones for the whole audience and the band to join in with gusto:
'Will you go, Laddie, go
To the braes o' Balquiddher
We'll crown the lass your Queen
We'll feast the night together…'
They sang it boisterously as one sings a national anthem.As the song ended, Lachlan put his hand on Steve's shoulder, leading him forward. Steve, who had accepted what was now to be announced, out of a sense of adventure more than duty to the Redeemers' cause, nevertheless felt deeply hesitant without fully understanding why.
'And here to crown our Queen – is your Laddie!'
Uproar in the Grand Saloon followed. Up on the dais, Steve stood bemused, smiling slightly as Beth tucked her arm through his. Well used to being the subject of public adulation and playing instinctively to the crowd, she kissed him on the cheek. Some of the audience gave a little gasp of pleasure at this.
After the election of the Queen and the nomination of the Laddie, the crowd milled around in the marquee feasting off the food on the trestle tables. The fare on offer was traditional Scottish cooking. There were haggis and blood puddings to go with more prosaic steak and kidney pies, made with suet not pastry, game pies and several different kinds of pasty; there was fresh wild salmon and smoked fish too. Mountains of hot, freshly baked rolls in baskets sat beside the many puddings, jellies, syllabubs and custards. The dishes with Delia's hash brownies were emptied within a few minutes. Wine and whisky and beer were all available and there were plenty of takers for all three. Moving backwards and forwards to the spits to cut themselves slices of pork, people in the crowd all agreed that Sir Lachlan and Lady Morrison had secured them an outstanding Laddie and a May Queen who, with her great musical talent, was superior to anyone offered up in recent years.
While this was going on, Mary Hillier led Steve and Beth off to a hunting lodge in the deer park, reached by a stone bridge, called the Bridge of Sighs by the Morrisons, although it scarcely resembled the original in Venice. It had been arranged that the two of them should have a short time to themselves before Steve rode off with Lachlan to be prepared for the Laddie's ride the next day, while Beth would be collected by Delia to come and relax as a guest in the castle overnight.
As Mary Hillier led them across the bridge, she chattered like the excited little bird she rather resembled. They could already see the hunting lodge, an oddly gothic looking little building with mullioned windows, situated where the once extensive deer park now bordered ploughed fields.
'Like I said,' Mary was sounding slightly schoolmarmish. 'This was a hunting lodge once. But our government has started to ban all that. Fishing will be next, they say. Too painful for the poor wee fish!'
'So how do you think it went, Mary?' asked Beth.
'D'you think they bought it?' added Steve, before Mary could answer.
'Bought it? Oh, don't worry your heads about that! They loved you, my lambs, couldn't you tell? They – well – we all thought you just perfect.'
Mary Hillier had reached the front door of the hunting lodge and opened it for them. But she simply ushered them in, not following herself.
'This is all set up for you to have a wee while together, without anyone disturbing you. They've left a flagon of punch – oh, it's not alcoholic – we know you might not want anything like that – and plenty to eat if you're hungry. Sir Lachlan and Lady Morrison will be by to collect you well before dark.'
With which Mary Hillier was gone, closing the door behind her. Beth and Steve both gave a sigh of relief. In their different ways, they both thought of the Tressockites as potential subjects for their evangelism. It was difficult to completely relax in their presence.
But there the similarity between their moods ended. Beth was floating on a post-performance high. And yet she had only to look at Steve to see that he was deeply troubled. He had started to sip the punch and, testing it and finding it undrinkable, went to the refrigerator in the little wet bar off the great panelled room. Taking two Cokes out, he popped their tops, giving one to Beth.
'We'd best pour that punch down the drain. It sure is yucky. Lord knows what's in it. But lets not hurt their feelings.' Steve poured the punch into the basin of the little bar, flushing it away with water from the tap.
Beth had learnt not to be too direct with Steve. But now she could not resist challenging him. His mood seemed hard to explain given what they had both just experienced.
'You got a problem, Steve? Don't you think it went well? I mean it seemed to me it was, like, a triumph beyond our wildest dreams. How many prospective souls were there? I mean that was a big number of people.'
'Guess so,' said Steve. 'Still, somethin' about it seemed kind of weird to me. They loved you because you're a star. You look like a star and of course you sing like a star. But I'm not a star. Yet they treated me like one. Isn't that weird? I mean there's somethin' goin' on and I just can't figure it out.'
'What is there to figure out?' asked Beth. 'Mary says they love us. They want me to be Queen of the May and you their Laddie – which means riding the horse you love…'
In spite of Beth's persuasive tone, Steve seemed increasingly doubtful.
'Beth, I have a confession to make. I'm not worthy to be no Redeemer. I'm a sinner, Beth. You don't want to know. But I am a sinner. Big time.'
He was standing, staring moodily into the fire. Beth put her hand on his shoulder. She was astonished and upset by what he had said, but, more than that, puzzled.
'Is this about us? About what happened in that hotel in Glasgow? When we suddenly thought about our silver rings…'
She was staring at his ringless hand.
'Steve!' she shouted. 'Where is it? Your ring?'
'I lost it, Beth.' He made it a simple statement of fact.
Beth was now in shock, utterly distracted by Steve's lack of his silver ring.
'I'm not the guy for you Beth,' Steve was saying. 'Can you be a believer AND a sinner? I guess you can. 'Cause that's me. Tomorrow I'll be their Laddie and after that, hopefully, we'll gather a whole wagon load of souls for Jesus. Then I'll go right back to Texas, where I belong. And I hope you'll come too, honey. Because something about this isn't right. I mean who are we to try and change these people? I know Jesus wants us to do it. But I still ask myself the question.'
A little later, Lachlan rode over the Bridge of Sighs on Prince. He was leading a fine bay horse all saddled up for Steve. As he neared the hunting lodge he slowed Prince to a standstill and listened. The voices of his guests were being raised in – it sounded like anger – but perhaps anguish. Either way, it was a disturbing development. He had rather hoped that, buoyed by the success of their preach-in, they would fall into each other's arms and do whatever Silver Ring Thing lovers did with each other. A torrent of chaste kisses perhaps? He would have liked to have thought she had even gone so far as to have yielded up her cherry to Steve in wild celebration. Perhaps that is sheer sentimentality on my part, reflected Lachlan.
Someone was knocking at the door. Steve, hugely relieved at the interruption, hurried to open it. Beth followed him, hissing in his ear. 'You do still love me, Steve?'
'I do, honey. We go back a long ways. No, I really do. Don't you worry about that!'
Steve had now opened the door and there stood a smiling Lachlan, looking at them sligh
tly anxiously.
'Everything alright with you two?' he asked lightly.
'Oh sure,' said Beth, summoning up the smile with some difficulty.
'Yeah, sure thing,' added Steve, who had just seen the handsome bay next to Prince. 'Who is that?'
'His name is Killiecrankie. Called for a famous battle that we won.'
'Against the British?'
'We Scots are British too, Steve. Against the English.'
'Where is Delia?' asked Beth, brightly enough, but slightly irritated by this totally irrelevant conversation.
'She'll be here shortly to pick you up, Beth. Mary Hillier is bringing your things,' said Lachlan.
'So, see you later,' said Beth to Steve, covering the anger and disappointment she felt with a cold nonchalance.
But this was slightly lost on Steve, who was already looking closely at Killiecrankie. He patted the horse's neck and then turned to lengthen the stirrups somewhat.
'Yeah, see you later, honey,' he replied. 'Take care.'
'Yeah, you too,' she responded rather mechanically, watching for a moment as they both mounted their horses. Then she shut the door and rushed to bury her head, sobbing, into one of the cushions on the sofa. She was still there, still trying to staunch her tears when Delia arrived.
Beth Goes to the Ball
WHEN DELIA CAME to call for her, Beth was feeling real mad with Steve. Wild thoughts flew around in her poor anguished mind. So Steve couldn't handle the Silver Ring Thing. He thought that chastity, abstinence, at any rate for men, was dumb. Not human, he'd said. As if, thought Beth, we should all have the morals of the apes. That was probably another of Mr Charles Darwin's hellish theories.
Delia had arrived with Mary Hillier, who had brought Beth's clothes.
'You've been crying, my lamb, haven't you?'
'Does it matter?' asked Beth. 'I think I'll go straight to bed, if you don't mind.'
'You'll do nothing of the kind, Beth!' said Delia quite firmly. 'If that Steve's been unkind, put him out of your mind. Just for a while. Till you're good and ready to forgive him. For quite a high price. Never forgive a man for little. We've arranged a party for you fit for a Queen of the May. Some of our best-looking young men will be there. Nearly all good dancers.'
They were going through her suitcase, the one suitcase allowed by the Redeemers. It was full of sensible missionary's clothes. An expensive but plain little black dress for the rare social occasion someone born again, wearing a Silver Ring Thing and preaching door-to-door might expect to attend was, Beth knew, the best she had to offer.
'Have you got absolutely nothing to wear to this party, Beth?' Delia's voice was pitying rather than censorious.
'Nothing in here that's "drop dead gorgeous",' said Mary Hillier as kindly as she could, but speaking to Delia.
'A good thing that we brought some clothes along with us,' said Delia. 'In case you were caught short.'
Mary Hillier had disappeared out to the Range Rover, in which they had arrived, and came back with a large garment bag. Out came some gloriously chic clothes by the likes of Stella McCartney, McQueen, Versace and others. A clutch of extravagant shoes, silk and lace underwear, and costume jewellery to match had been brought along too.
'You're really putting on this party for the May Queen? I mean, that is like my role for tonight?' Beth asked.
Even as Delia and Mary Hillier were reassuring Beth that she had described her role exactly, she was suddenly revelling at the very idea of walking into a room in one of these outfits. Not just Queen of the May, but Beth Boothby, star once again – and seeing the effect of it in every woman's and every man's eyes. To be that terrible cliché 'drop dead gorgeous' just for this one night. To sing some old appropriate hit like 'I'm the tops! I'm the Coliseum! I'm a waltz by Strauss…' No, that wasn't quite right, but the band would know it and she would get it right on the night. And to hell with Steve! Plenty of time to bring him back into the fold, she told herself. Bringing him back to her might have to be a priority over bringing him back to Jesus, but she would wrestle with that later. 'Tomorrow,' as another southern belle had famously said, 'is another day.'
'This is your night,' said Delia. 'You'll never have another like it.'
And they went to work to make her prophecy come true. When three women, belonging to roughly three generations, from three vastly different backgrounds, set out to prepare one of their number to make a fashion statement, to look attractive, even sexy, but not vulgarly so; to inspire respectful lust in men, and envy, mixed with admiration, in women, the result could very easily have been disastrous.
In fact, under Delia's inspired leadership, they ended up with just the right effect. Beth's youth, as reflected in every detail of her face and hair, as Delia had noted at the cathedral, meant that any make-up was superfluous. The Versace halter-necked dress they chose clung so tightly to her body that on anyone with a less perfect figure than hers it would have advertised their imperfections for all to remark. And yet it seemed irreproachably modest and ladylike. Until she turned her back. There the dress was cut right down to almost the base of her spine, revealing as beautiful a naked back as any woman could dream of having.
Beame, dressed in a kilt of dubious authenticity, looked nevertheless imposing and convincingly butler-like as he greeted Delia, Mary and Beth in the front hall. Music and the rhythmic sound of shoe-leather on a well-sprung floor told Beth that the dancing had begun.
Delia saw that she was suitably impressed with the slightly tattered grandeur of this space. Beth had indeed read some history, mainly about the American civil war, the background to Gone with the Wind. She asked with genuine interest about the battle flags, hung high above her head, and learned that they had belonged to long dead lowland regiments, bedecked with the far-flung battle honours of those men of Tressock who had fought at Cawnpore and Seringapatam; at Quebec and New Orleans; at Ypres and Gallipoli. Interspersed amid all this history of valour in far off places were the beautifully preserved, stuffed heads of crocodiles and rhinos, tigers and leopards, but mostly deer with magnificent antlers.
'The flags used to hang in the church,' explained Delia, 'and Beame here stuffed all those stags' heads, didn't you Beame? He was a professional taxidermist before he came to work for us.'
'Yeah? Interesting!' said Beth politely, disguising her distaste. 'So what do you..? How do you..?'
On her many starry singing tours around America she had, every now and then, had some R and R organised by women's groups anxious to point out local colour and history. In Berlin, Florida, which proclaimed itself, on a big sign as you drove into town, Iron Lawn Flamingo Capital of the World, she had to spend two hours watching the whole process of making the birds, from casting, through painting a lurid pink, to putting out to grass. Then, as now, she had managed to look genuinely intrigued and delighted throughout. Queen Elizabeth of Great Britain couldn't have done it better. It was a gift from the Lord and when Beth added the smile her hosts were invariably enchanted by her. Now she was fixing Beame with the look which said: I'm really anxious to know the answer.
'Everyone works different, miss,' said Beame, highly gratified at her interest. 'Some people start with grinding out the bones. But I always commence with the organs. The brain, for instance, comes straight out of the eye sockets…'
Beame had just caught Delia's thunderous look.
'…anyway it's just a hobby now, miss.'
He said this hastily before opening the big double doors to the Grand Saloon. To Beth's relief, their entrance was not immediately noticed, so that she had time to take in the scene. The band, which consisted of pipers as well as the more conventional instruments of a dance band, gathered close to the piano they had used that morning. They were dancing in eights, four men and four women, criss-crossing in intricate patterns. Every now and then a woman and a man would break ranks and move forward to dance with each other and then return to the eightsome. The women were dressed in party dresses with plaid sashes, often held by
a silver brooch at the shoulder. Some of the men had dressed in tuxedos, but discarded the jackets for dancing. Others wore the kilt, but they too had open-necked dress shirts.
'We have clubs that do this back home,' Beth told Delia. 'Only the girls wearing kilts. I guess the guys think it would look too gay. But, hey, these guys look good in their kilts. Is it true they don't wear anything underneath?'
'I think it depends which way they swing, Beth,' Delia replied. 'Of course you could check it out if you want to make Steve jealous. Want to try? To dance, I mean.'
Delia led Beth off to a corner of the room, where she started to teach her the basic steps. The band had seen them and continued to play, only changing to another tune. A group of mostly young men gathered to watch them. Delia suddenly stopped.
'The Queen of the May would like to dance,' announced Delia loudly.
This announcement took Beth rather by surprise, although she was longing to dance the eightsome. But now a dozen young men had moved forward, laughingly jostling each other for the honour to dance with her. She was clearly expected to make a choice. It made her suddenly very self-conscious, a rare feeling for her. What had made her decide to wear this sexy dress? Just Steve's behaviour? She was here on a mission for Jesus. She felt a moment of remorse and wanted somehow to make amends with the Lord, who must be disappointed at her behaviour. Looking at the men, trying to think what the Lord would want her to do, she remembered a visiting preacher once saying to her class at high school, quoting some famous dude: 'there's a special place in heaven for the man who winks at a homely girl.'
The young men were a good-looking group for the most part, paler than Texans and shorter, and most of them slimmer. None of them anywhere near as attractive, in her eyes, as Steve, with his sun squinty eyes and his wonderful smile. She had noticed a particularly nerdy looking young man who had hung back when the others came forward, shorter than the rest, skinny and with slightly poppy eyes behind Coke bottle lenses.
She strode forward into the crowd and put her hand out to take his.
